


your shadow behind me

by Kisatsel



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Blow Jobs, Canon Era, First Time, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tent Sex, Unrequited Lust
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-25
Updated: 2016-06-25
Packaged: 2018-07-18 02:15:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7295503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kisatsel/pseuds/Kisatsel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John can still feel the imprint of the trigger on his finger, the scent of gunpowder in his throat, and he is not yet done enacting justice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your shadow behind me

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to redpaint for reading this over. And also to digitalis for making this cool thing happen! (the cool thing being their Washington/Laurens post-duel collection) Here is my version of these assholes having melodramatic tent sex.

Alexander storms out of the tent, coat flapping behind him. He’s a blur of fury striding past and out of sight, leaving a vivid imprint of slashing frown and angry flush and the dark smear on his cheek that John knows to be blood mixed with sweat from where he’d bent over Lee to press a hand to his face. Alexander, always gentle when you need it least: maybe now he’ll find a use for that most unbearable of his many intolerable qualities. John sits on a log nearby and drums his feet against the muddy ground. He heard most of the exchange. It was hard not to. John doesn’t call out to him. Let Alexander carry the memory of John striding forward to bury a bullet in a traitor home to the marriage bed and the cradle; let their last act together be in the name of the revolution.

The tent flap hangs open. It’s strange, he thinks, grinding the heel of one boot into the earth, that Washington did not send for him first. If there is to be an accounting it should be now, while his blood is still running hot in his veins. The thought propels him to his feet.

It’s scarcely twenty paces to the command tent. Inside, the general is seated behind his desk, his head resting in his hands.

John clears his throat loudly.

“Laurens. You’re still standing.” Resting his eyes upon living evidence of this seems to weary Washington immeasurably. Still, he rises from his seat.

John spreads his hands wide, a theatrical flourish. _I’m as surprised as you are_ , he doesn’t say. “You’re done with Alexander, then.”

“He’s headed home to his wife and son,” Washington says with heavy finality.

“Yeah,” John says. “Bet you’re feeling pleased with yourself. I got rid of the guy who fucked up Monmouth and insulted your honor, and in return you sent away the best man this army had.”

He sees shock flit across the general’s face before it’s replaced by anger. That alone would be enough to cow most men, Gil would be begging for forgiveness by this point, but John can still feel the imprint of the trigger on his finger, the scent of gunpowder in his throat, and he is not yet done enacting justice.

“I should have you thrown out too,” Washington says. “Have you confined to a tent till you leave, a guard posted outside to prevent any more breaks of discipline. How would you like that?”

“Fine by me.” He advances until he is leaning over the desk, separated from the commander only by a rough slab of wood. Rarely are they so close. He’s never been able to aggravate the general the way Alexander could with little more than stray word or glance; John prefers to stay at a distance and enjoy Washington’s comparable leniency.

He does not look lenient now. “You’ve been on a long leash,” he says. “But dogs that bite at their owner’s hand get caged up for their own good, Laurens.”

John throws his head back to laugh at that. “I’m sure Lee would be flattered to hear that you considered him a necessary appendage.”

“Lee is mine to deal with. As was Alexander. As are you.”

“I’d expect a little more gratitude.”

“You’d--” Washington begins, and then stops. It’s very satisfying to make the general cut off mid-sentence like this; John wonders, idly, if there are other ways it might be achieved.

He comes round to the other side of the desk, draws back the chair and takes a seat. Spreads his legs out, leisurely, and gets comfortable. Washington turns to watch him, his eyebrows drawn together in fury. John wonders if he will be hauled up and slammed over the desk. Not a bad prospect, but instead the general stand there before him, a little stiffness in his posture.

John rests his palms on his thighs. "You’re lucky that I was willing to defend your honor when you couldn’t do so yourself,” he says. “That I know what you need.”

“What I need,” Washington repeats, with such disdain that John fairly crackles to feel it.

“It’s alright,” he says warmly. “I know your little secret. Four years, no wonder you can barely stand the sight of each other. Hamilton can’t tell you no again if he’s not here.”

Washington, mouth working, cannot bring himself to form the denial.

“Did you ever beg him?” The general shakes his head mutely. John clicks his tongue. “Guess you’re too important for that.” Washington is grinding his jaw, hands clenched; his feet are planted as if at parade rest and yet he leans forward helplessly when John beckons to him. “Show me how the general would have begged, if his pride had permitted.”

Washington steps back as if struck. John waits.

“What will you give me?”

Triumph flushes through John. “I’ll tell you what it’s like. With Alexander,” he says, “what he might have done with you.” The name comes out honey-smooth just like he intended, and if it feels wrong to bestow such a thing on one such as George Washington, unsurpassed in stature with a wife to whom he writes endless series of dull letters, well. Perhaps generals deserve kindness too occasionally.

“You think I’d want that,” Washington says, drawn up to his full furious height once more. “That I’d - stoop that low.”

“I’d love to find out.” John pauses, lets it work on him. “But fine. I’m not cruel. You’re still gonna beg, though.”

He taps his foot. The general wavers, slow heavy breathing and doubt flickering in his eyes. John sighs. “Down.”

Washington glances to the floor, and back to John. John taps a finger on his thigh and stares patiently. He sees the moment when it happens, the final stroke felling a tree, as Washington jerks a nod and folds stiffly to his knees. He approaches slow and careful. John reaches out a hand to cup his cheek and marvels at how smooth it is despite the general’s age, no stubble. Washington with the proud line of his neck tilted down, gazing at the ground between John’s feet. John tips his chin up, ignoring how his own hand shakes when he brushes a finger over Washington’s lips. His tongue darts out to taste, lips pursing and then twisting in distaste.

“You’re bloody.”

John laughs again. He undoes the ties of his breeches. “How much do you want this?”

Washington’s head tips up as if he’s pulled on a string. “I need it,” he says quietly.

John smiles, approving. “Show me then.”

The general is cautious, deliberate, as he touches his lips to the head and opens his mouth to suck on it. John digs his nails into his palms. Halfway down the shaft, Washington moans.

John runs a hand over the crown of his head. “Stay there. Still.”

He pushes upwards with a groan of relief. Washington gags, draws off and coughs and then sinks back down again, and stays there, steady, steady. John tries to slow his motion. A small voice in the back of his head that sounds suspiciously like Alexander tells him _hey, easy man, slow down, slow down_. John scowls briefly: the hypocrite. Still, it wouldn’t do to wear out the general’s throat.

Washington’s eyes have drifted closed. He takes John a little deeper. John keeps his eyes open, does not allow himself to sink into reminiscence. He knows exactly whose mouth is on him. “New to this, huh. Shame that no one was able to teach you how to suck cock until now, old man.”

Washington is amenable to instruction, as it turns out. He tries to plead with his eyes and the eager craning of his neck when John eases him up off his dick; a gentle slap gets him gasping, begging to taste him. “Let me try again,” Washington says hoarsely. “This is. I’ve never.”

“Shit,” John says reverently. He runs a hand over the back of the general’s neck, caresses the warm skin. “Go on, take it.”

Washington does as he’s bid, and when John holds him still and lets himself thrust up into the heat of his mouth Washington makes a small choked noise and closes his eyes. John feels release building at the base of his spine and manages to grit out a warning. He bites down on his fist to swallow the noise when he comes. It dribbles out over Washington’s lips, his throat working as he swallows erratically and then pulls off John’s softening cock to spit the remains on the ground.

John sinks down in the chair and lets his head loll back, breathes in deep, his bones heavy.

A minute passes, and he opens his eyes to look down at the general. Washington is watching him intently.

John stands and cracks his back. He holds out a hand. Washington stares at it oddly for a second and then reaches up to clasp it and hauls himself to his feet.

He rubs a boot discretely over the sticky patch on the ground, grinding it into the dirt, lifts his foot with a grimace, and then turns to John and lets out a deep, shuddering sigh. “How many messes of yours will I clean up before this war is done, Col. Laurens?” Washington says with strained, exaggerated weariness.

John bites back a grin. “That’s up to you, Excellency.” He casts a glance down over the general’s breeches, and marvels that he hasn’t taken himself in hand. That monumental control back in place. Part of him itches to take him by the shoulders and push him back down into that chair, ease the fabric down over his thighs and see how loud he can make him cry out. But the risk is absurd, even on a day like today. Better to leave like this, leave him wanting, and return to take when he can.

“Maybe I’ll return the favor some time,” he says. “If you ask nice.”

Washington turns deliberately and crosses to the other side of the desk, places his palms on the wood. “I’ll expect an account,” he says, “of the duel. Don’t care who writes it. Get it done.”

“Hamilton will write you one.”

“Good. Burr’ll need to sign.”

“Not a problem.” John runs a hand through his hair. A patch of cold winter sky gleams through the opening at the tent entrance. “I should. Be on my way.”

“Dismissed,” Washington says.

John pats him on the shoulder on the way out, and feels the barest hint of a shudder beneath his hand.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are loved! Kiwisatsuma on tumblr.


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